"Really, ma'am, you are not reasonable," replied Hobbs; "Mr. Lorimer has written several times to you. Have you answered his letters?"

"No, it is true I have not, but what is there that I can say to him? No, Hobbs, I have no friends left--only you, my good brave companion; but it is very wrong of me to make you share my sad existence. It is selfish of me. Hobbs, you shall not stay much longer. You must leave me ... not just yet, but soon" ...

The good woman, melted to tears, asked what she had done to deserve to be sent away. She vowed she was quite happy, and her tears fell in great hot drops on Dora's hands, that she kissed with avidity.

"If Mr. Lorimer does not come to see you, why don't you write and ask him to come? He would not wait to be asked twice, I know! He at least has always been a real friend, and I am sure is devoted to you."

"That is true," said Dora.

"And then he is so merry; it does you good to look at him. He carries gaiety wherever he goes. And he is so kind! Write to him, and I will guarantee that he will rush out here as soon as he gets your letter."

"Yes, Hobbs, you are right, and I will do it to-day."

She immediately took pen and paper and wrote to Lorimer.

"Hobbs, you don't happen to know who the people are that are living in our old house, I suppose?"

"No, ma'am," said Hobbs, rather scared at the question.

"Try to find it out."

"Oh, why, ma'am?"

"It would interest me to know, that is all."

"Some say it is a hermit, a bearish kind of gentleman who sees no one and never goes out."

"Ah," said Dora. "Is he a painter?"

"I think so, ma'am, but I am not sure."

"He has had the house done up like new."

"I have heard that he is going to be married--that he has had the house finely decorated for his future wife."

"Ah, and who told you all these details?"

"The tradespeople," replied Hobbs quickly.

Dora went on writing, and Hobbs, fearing she had said too much, determined to turn a deaf ear to any questions Dora might put to her in future on the subject of 50 Elm Avenue and its new master.

XVII

DORA'S STUDIO

We have every reason to suppose that if Lorimer had not called on Dora in her new quarters, it was because he had not dared to do so. He saw Philip often, and so had news of her nearly every day. He had feared to be importunate, all the more so that Philip had told him how Dora had closed her doors to everyone, and had shut herself up in complete seclusion.

It was in the early part of the month of April 1898 that Lorimer received from Dora a letter in which she said to him, "If you will come, dear friend, I shall be so pleased to see you. I am in very poor lodgings, but I am sure that will not make you pa.s.s me by on the other side. Do come soon, I am longing to see a friendly face."

Lorimer lost no time in responding to her call. Hobbs opened the door to him and beamed to see his cheerful face.

"Oh, sir! I am glad to see you, sir," said she.

"Well, my dear Hobbs, and how are things going by this time?" asked Lorimer, in his cheeriest tones.

"You will do mistress such a lot of good, sir! She has not been at all herself lately. She is very weak to-day and has pa.s.sed a very bad night--she is quite changed since the day she saw our old house was occupied again, and yet she could not have thought that it would remain unlet for ever."

"She does not know who it is that is living there, of course?"

"No, no, sir; but I should dearly love to tell her. I believe it would put her into a better humour."

"Take care that you do not, Hobbs; she must not hear on any account. You will know why later on. You may be sure that Mr. Grantham and I are not idle. We have an idea in our heads, and you shall help us by and by to put it into execution; so, for the present, not one word, you hear?"

"You can rely upon me, sir."

"Yes, I am sure of that. And now, can I have a little talk with Mrs.

Grantham?"

"Yes, sir, in a minute or two. She will be so glad to see you, you will do her much good! The doctor is with her for the moment."

"What does he say about her?"

"Nothing--I can't get anything out of him. He shakes his head. It's disheartening. And mistress will not listen to reason; she tears up all the prescriptions, especially lately, for the last week or so--it is very sad. I shall go and tell her you are here."

Lorimer, left alone in the studio, looked around him and took in all its details.

"Why, it's freezing here!" he said to himself. "Heavens! it's no wonder, there is positively no fire. Is she so poor as.... Oh no, it can't be so bad as that. What pathos in this room--an exact reproduction of that lovely one in the other house, where we used to have such merry times!

Ah, there is the old clock in its place--not going, I see. There is Dora's portrait on Philip's easel, still lacking the finishing touches.

There is Philip's jacket, hanging just where it always hung--the two easels and stools--everything in place, nothing wanting but Philip himself. What treasures of tenderness are revealed in this poor counterfeit presentment of the other studio! How happy her life must have been there, that she should want to make an exact imitation of the room, and so revive the past! There are people who break with their happy bygone times, others who cling to them determinedly. A few pounds have transformed this miserable studio into a living souvenir that will kill her. And yet, why do I say _will kill her_, when it is just this living souvenir that keeps her alive--that will keep her alive, perhaps?

Here were two beings who loved each other dearly, and between whom a simple suspicion, a terrible misunderstanding, seems to have erected an insurmountable barrier. Philip wanted to be rich, poor beggar! He has not been long learning that there is but a step from Plutus to Pluto.

Most of the old proverbs want re-editing. I know one that ought to run: 'When wealth comes in at the door, love and happiness fly out at the window.' But poor old Philip is cured, radically cured, once and for ever. He talks nonsense still sometimes, but it is the other whom I am most anxious about, and who vows that everything is over. Philip goes in for philosophy, and that is a healthy sign. He has decided that his wife is better off than he is, because she has found consolation in her painting. He would give his whole house for Dora's garret. And the fellow tells us these things in a tone of conviction, as if he were uttering the wisdom of a Solomon or a Socrates. The panegyric of poverty is all bosh; it is an affectation! When I see a book ent.i.tled _How to Live comfortably on Two Hundred a Year_, I take it for granted that the author is a millionaire."

Dr. Templeton came out of Dora's bedroom and surprised Lorimer in the midst of his reflections. He was looking troubled and in a bad temper.

"That woman will exhaust my patience, I know she will. She is the most obstinate, the most ... the most ... there, I can't find a word for her."

"Don't try, doctor; you have explained yourself admirably."

"Yes, I am getting out of patience at last. I can do nothing with her.

She takes no notice of my advice or my prescriptions. If she is bent upon dying--why, she must die, I suppose; she does not want a doctor for that."

"That does not always go without saying," said Lorimer jokingly.

"If we cannot get her out of this place, she has not another month to live. She must have change of air, and change of scene and company, or she is done for. She has not a chance ... and that d.a.m.ned picture!" he vociferated, shaking his fist at the easel, "that confounded portrait!